


Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On

by Midnight_Masquerade



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Femlock, Friendship, Gen, Minor Character Death, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 21:50:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1703777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnight_Masquerade/pseuds/Midnight_Masquerade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Genderflipped 5 plus 1: 5 times Girl!Sherlock and Joan shared a bed platonically, and one time they shared a bed romantically. Rated for very mild smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On

**Author's Note:**

> New to this site, but not to ficcing. Feedback greatly appreciated (this work is currently unbeta'd).

**1  
** The first time is entirely by accident.

Sherlock and Joan stagger into Baker Street in the early hours of the morning with adrenaline still coursing through their veins, making them light-headed and giggly. 

Joan hangs her jacket on the peg inside the door, and follows Sherlock up the stairs, bending and flexing the fingers of her injured hand. It wasn't serious – the busted knuckles and bruising that one would expect from punching a thick-skinned drug lord straight in the jaw – but a cursory glance on her way up to the flat and Joan realises she should at least clean and bandage it. No sense causing herself unnecessary damage, especially as it could only be a matter of time before she was jumping into the fray to save Sherlock's neck yet again.

Joan pushes through the door to find Sherlock already sprawled over the sofa, still in her coat, scarf and shoes, hands steepled in her signature thinking pose.

“Tea?” Joan asks, moving towards the kitchen. Sherlock merely grunts in reply, and Joan decides to take it as an affirmative, pulling two mugs out of the cupboard. While waiting for the kettle to boil she sets to work on her hand, eyes growing heavy and the world dulling as her adrenaline high slowly recedes.

A few moments later she walks across the living room, setting the mugs down on the table before shoving Sherlock's legs out of the way and collapsing onto the sofa. Sherlock frowns in irritation, but folds herself up at the other end. “You're injuries didn't require bandages.” she remarks, not looking at Joan, “It's hardly the first time you've thrown such an ill-advised punch.”

“Hands are easier to damage than people think.” Joan tells her, blowing on her tea. “It's better to be cautious.”

Sherlock mutters something that sounds vaguely derisive, and Joan launches on, “And besides, I wouldn't have been forced to throw such an  _ ill-advised punch _ if you hadn't taken it upon yourself to walk straight into the path of his gun undefended.”

“If he had been intending to use his gun for any more than a threat he would have done so the moment he discovered us.” Sherlock replied, somewhat haughtily.

“It's that kind of assumption that's going to get you killed one day.” Joan said.

“Of course it won't.” Sherlock scoffed, “I have the utmost faith in your ability to be in the right place at the right time, Joan.”

The blonde sighed, “Maybe I should let you get shot next time, just to teach you a lesson.”

“I'd be in safe hands. You have a certain stubbornness about not letting people bleed to death in alleyways.”

Joan rolls her eyes, not deigning to reply, and the two women fall into silence. The warmth of the flat is rather intoxicating to her already exhausted brain, and soon the sofa is feeling unreasonably comfortable. Joan tries to order herself upstairs to her bedroom, but doesn't make it any further than setting her empty mug back on the table before the call of unconsciousness becomes too strong, and she simply curls up on the sofa and falls into a deep sleep.

When she awakes, it is to a gloomy, overcast sky outside the windows and an unexpected armful of consulting detective. Joan glances down to find that Sherlock, no longer wearing her coat, had ended up draped over her at some point in the night. Her head rests on Joan's chest, curly hair tickling her neck, and one arm is slung around her waist, pinning her to the cushions. 

It wasn't that bad, really. Sherlock was radiating heat, and – were it not for her hipbone digging into Joan's side and an urgent need to pee – Joan would have been happy to let herself drift back to sleep. Instead, she eases herself out from under her friend, trying desperately not to wake her. Sherlock shifts slightly, but her breathing remains deep and regular, and Joan breathes a sigh of relief. Lord knew that woman needed all the rest she could get.

Joan goes through her daily morning ritual of showering and dressing, feeling surprisingly well rested given her night of hurtling around the city and breaking her hand on criminal's faces. She is halfway through making breakfast for herself when Sherlock wakes up in her usual grumpy early-morning mood. Joan cheerfully ignores her complaining and throws an extra slice of toast in for her, knowing that the morning after a case Sherlock will at least eat. 

The day is quiet and uneventful, Sherlock uncharacteristically passive once she has fully woken up. Joan decides not to question it and instead enjoy the short time of peace. No comment is made from either woman about the unusual sleeping situation of the previous night, and Joan doesn't think to dwell on it. 

 

** 2  
** The second time is driven by circumstance.

The heavy door of the cell clangs shut, and for several seconds neither of them move. Sherlock is staring at the door almost pensively, as though it holds the answer to a question she's been puzzling over. Joan merely fumes.

Eventually, Sherlock notices the waves of anger rolling off her friend, and clears her throat awkwardly, “I maintain that–”

“Shut up.” Joan snaps, turning to pace distractedly around the tiny room, “I don't want to hear any more of your excuses, OK?”

“Joan really.” Sherlock sighs, in a tone that makes the shorter woman's anger flare even higher. “It was vital that I saw what was in Johnson's basement, the case depended on it.”

“So you break in through his window while he was in the house?” Joan cries, “We're lucky we're not facing charges!”

“I knew Lestrade would intervene.” Sherlock replies calmly. “Our methods may be unorthodox, but they also get results. Locking us up wouldn't be helpful for anyone.”

“And yet here we are in prison right now.” Joan shoots back, “All because you couldn't sit tight for 10 minutes until the police arrived.”

“It's only overnight, we'll be fine.” Sherlock tells her, a note of exasperation in her voice, “The police always mess things up, I needed a look at the evidence myself before they trampled all over it.”

Joan groans in frustration, burying her face in her hands.  _ It'll be a miracle _ , she thinks to herself,  _ if I make it through the night without strangling her _ .

“The hard work is over now anyway.” Sherlock tells her, “Though I imagine Lestrade will want statements from us both tomorrow, assuming his incompetent forensics team haven't contaminated everything.” she crosses the cell and stretches out on the metal frame that spanned the far wall. “We should get some sleep.”

“Never thought I'd hear you say that.” Joan remarks drily. 

“Under most circumstances sleep is a distraction from more constructive pursuits.” Sherlock tells her, with the tone of someone explaining something that should be glaringly obvious. “However, while we are locked in here, I am more than willing to spend the hours unconscious rather than let my brain fester.”

“Whatever.” Joan responds, not wanting yet another 'my mind rebels at stagnation' speech. “You're going to commandeer the bed, of course.”

“What?” Sherlock asks absently, eyes already closed, “Don't be absurd, Joan, it's quite big enough for the both of us.”

“Wha – but – You can't be serious!” Joan splutters.

“Why wouldn't I be?” Sherlock asks, “The bed, though rather substandard, is infinitely preferable to the floor.”

“Sherlock, I am not going to share a bed with you!” Joan cries, feeling the edges of her nerves fraying. At this rate, she _would_ be up on charges, and far worse ones than she'd narrowly avoided.

Sherlock sighs, and the blonde can practically hear the implied eye roll. “Don't be childish, Joan. I can promise to keep my hands to myself, if that's what's concerning you.”

“Tha – Of course it isn't!” Joan huffs indignantly.

“Then I fail to see where your objection is coming from.” Sherlock informs her placidly. 

For several seconds Joan gapes at her in silence, utterly lost for words. Then she decides – for the sake of her sanity and Sherlock's continued existence – to give up. “Take the bed.” she tells Sherlock, slumping down against the wall. “I'll be fine here.”

Sherlock sniffs, “Very well, if you value your antiquated notions of modesty over your own comfort.”

“Comfort doesn't come into it.” Joan grumbles, unwilling to admit that the younger woman has a point, “Ex-military, remember? I can sleep practically anywhere.”

Sherlock doesn't reply, and as the light fades outsides the cell's tiny window, Joan does her best to drift off.

She doesn't realise she'd managed it until she wakes sometime later with an aching back and an awful crick in her neck. She attempts to ignore them, but as she remains slumped on the floor the burning becomes stronger, and eventually she is forced to concede. The room is dark, but she can hear Sherlock's snuffling breaths a little to her left and knows that her flatmate is asleep. For several moments her pride wars with her discomfort, then she attempts to turn her head and almost cries out at the stabbing pain the movement brings. Annoyed at herself –  _ I've slept in worse conditions than this, don't be such a wuss Joan _ – she levers herself off the floor and feels her way over to the bed. Her hands find Sherlock's back in the dark, discovering that she is slumped on the edge of the cot, one hand dangling over the side. As quietly as possible, Joan hoists herself over her friend's still form and settles in behind her, one hand resting on Sherlock's shoulder and the other pillowing her own head. She is asleep in moments.

The next morning both women were released and put in a taxi by Lestrade, with a stern warning about his influence only reaching so far that Joan is certain Sherlock disregards entirely. She also, to Joan's simultaneous relief and surprise, doesn't bother to deliver so much as an  _ I told you so _ , though Joan is sure she doesn't imagine the smugness that rolls of her flatmate in waves the whole afternoon.

 

** 3  
** The third time, neither of them are entirely sure what it is.

Joan lugs the final box up the stairs, setting it down in the middle of the living room. She looks around at the array of containers now littering Baker Street – the cumulation of the last few years of her life. She'd never been much of a hoarder (being continually on the move made practicality take precedence over sentimentality) but when she'd agreed to move in with Mark... 

Joan feels tears welling up in the corners of her eyes, and angrily blinks them away. She'd promised herself she wouldn't cry, not over him, not ever. It had been stupid really, to imagine that Mark Morstan could have been her forever. When did anything ever last in the life of Joan Watson? She'd been blinded by grief when they'd met, that was all. Blinded and desperate for the normal life she was convinced she was supposed to find.

She hears footsteps on the stairs, and quickly straightens herself out before Sherlock enters the room. She glances around at the piles obscuring the carpet. “Is this all of it?” she asks.

“Yeah.” Joan replies, hating how brittle her voice sounds, “I know it's a lot, I'm sorry, I... I'll have it sorted by tomorrow.”

“Don't apologise.” Sherlock replies, “The flat has been in far worse states than this in the past, surely you remember. You complained about it enough times.”

The joke falls completely flat, but Joan chuckles anyway, and Sherlock's mouth twitches in what might have been the beginnings of a smile. “Tea.” she says suddenly.

“What?”

“I'll make tea. And then I'd assume you'd like to eat before you unpack, we can order in if you like.” All of a sudden the taller woman is a flurry of activity, bustling around the kitchen and almost upsetting one of her experiments.

“Are you OK?” Joan asks.

“Of course.” Sherlock replies briskly, not turning around. “What shall we order? Chinese? Indian?”

For a moment Joan can only stand and stare as her flatmate sets about filling the kettle, struck dumb by the sight of Sherlock waiting for her to decide what to do. “Uh... yeah, Chinese would be good.” she ventures.

“Fine.” Sherlock replies immediately, “I'll order.”

Joan finds herself watching Sherlock all evening, waiting for the spell to break. Not only does the younger woman let her decide what to order, she raises no objection to Joan's choice of television programme – in fact, she sits in silence next to her, offering not a single barbed comment the whole evening and eating the food put in front of her without complaint.

Her unexpected complacency soon begins to worry Joan, and as Sherlock springs to her feet for the forth time to fetch her another beer, Joan grabs her arm on the way past. “Seriously, Sherlock, are you OK?”

“I'm fine,” Sherlock replies, “Why wouldn't I be?”

Joan frowns at her, “You've been acting really weird all evening. What's going on?”

For a moment Sherlock looks like she's about to make a run for it, but then Joan strengthens her grips on her wrist, and she stills. Looking over the top of her flatmate's head, she coughs and begins slowly, “Joan... I'm not sure what this situation requires of me, what – what you need.”

“Requires of you?” Joan asks, almost incredulously, “Sherlock... this situation doesn't _require_ anything of you.”

“Really?” Sherlock frowns sceptically, “You've suffered a grievance, Joan, _are_ suffering a grievance, and as your best friend–”

“You've already done more than enough.” Joan interrupts her, squeezing Sherlock's wrist in a manner she hoped was reassuring. “Just because you're my best friend doesn't obligate you to anything. You let me stay with you when I needed a place, that's already above and beyond.”

Sherlock's frown deepens, “That's hardly an act of good will. Baker Street is as much your home as mine.”

Joan falls silent once again. Hearing those words coming out of Sherlock's mouth, and in such a matter-of-fact tone, makes her heart twist in her chest. She drops her friend's wrist and looks away from her, afraid she'll start crying again. “I, uh.” she stares fiercely at the opposite wall, forcing herself to get the words out, “Thank you, Sherlock. For all you did for me after Mark... it meant a lot.”

“I should have seen it.” Sherlock says suddenly.

Joan looks back at her, “Seen what?”

“I should have seen who he really was, it could have spared you so much.” she begins pacing, hands twisting together, “I've built an entire career on noticing what nobody else does, but when it _mattered_ –”

“Hey.” Joan snags Sherlock's arm and pulls her down next to her on the sofa. “This isn't your fault, Sherlock. You're not responsible for his choices. Hell, what about me? I was with the guy for almost 2 years, I never even suspected...”

“He was trained in deception.” Sherlock tells her, “You would never have been able to see through it, he was too skilled.”

“Exactly.” Joan insists, “You'd never have seen it either. Let's just chalk this one up to poor decision making and... try to move on.”

“That sounds agreeable.” Sherlock had suddenly become very interested in the grain pattern of the table in front of them. She takes a deep breath, as though steeling herself. “It's good to have you back here.” she continues, every word measured, “I... have missed living with you.”

Tears rush back into Joan's eyes, her throat constricting. She blinks rapidly, trying to dispel the moisture, not trusting herself to speak. Almost of it's own volition, her body slumps sideways until her head is on Sherlock's shoulder and her arms are wrapped around her friend's wiry frame.

Sherlock stiffens in surprise, then gradually relaxes, her arms hesitantly coming up to return the embrace. Without warning both women are clinging to each other, fingers digging into jackets and faces buried in shoulders. The flat is enveloped in silence, neither of them wanting to shatter the moment with misplaced words. They remain entwined together on the sofa until the food has gone cold on the table and Joan's eyes are beginning to fall closed. Unwilling to leave the warmth and comfort of her friend's arms, not knowing if this situation will ever present itself again, she doesn't fight the drowsiness that envelops her system, and falls asleep with the smell of Sherlock filling her nose.

When she wakes she is alone on the sofa, but a slice of toast and a cup of still-warm tea sit on the table by her head.

 

** 4  
** The forth time they both just let it happen.

Sherlock paces the length of her bedroom, eyes roving over the tangled web of papers pinned to the wall. Joan is perched on the bed behind her, sifting through old police reports. The arrival of the warm weather and Mrs Hudson's unexpected spring cleaning frenzy had driven the pair from the living room, and they had taken shelter down the corridor.

Joan yawns widely, glancing at her watch. It had been a long day – more accurately, it had been several long days with far too little sleep. Sherlock, as usual, seemed not at all fazed by the enforced insomnia, but Joan was beginning to flag.

“What was the date of Malkovich's second conviction?” Sherlock asks her, and Joan jerks herself back to alertness, shuffling through the papers on her lap.

“Uh... February 22nd.”

Sherlock pauses, “Joan, that's a week before she was arrested.”

“Huh?” Joan squints back down at the paper, struggling to make sense of the tiny print, “Oh, right, March 22nd. Sorry.”

Sherlock sighs. “You need to get some sleep.”

“No no, I'm fine.” Joan protests, attempting to blink the heaviness from her eyes and failing.

“Clearly.” the clipped sarcasm in Sherlock's tone is obvious. “You are in no state to help me right now, and I can manage perfectly well by myself.”

Another huge yawn forces its way out of Joan's mouth, and she is forced to admit defeat. “Just a few hours, wake me if you find anything.”

“Of course.” Sherlock has already turned back to her wall of paper, “Stay in here if you prefer, I won't disturb you.”

“Thanks.” For some reason Joan is reluctant to leave her flatmate, but she simply chalks it up to knowing how lost Sherlock can get in intriguing cases, and clears a space for herself on the file-strewn bed.

The pillows are soft and smell like Sherlock's perfume, and Joan finds herself relaxing almost immediately. She shuts her eyes, and lets the soft sound of the other woman's pacing shoes and the occasional rustle of paper lull her down into unconsciousness.

A few hours later she is pulled awake by her phone buzzing on the table next to her head. She silences it, scrubs a hand through her hair, then turns to find Sherlock sprawled out on the bed next to her. Sleep had smoothed out the woman's normally irritated countenance, softening the firm set of her lips and making her look even younger than normal. Joan finds her eyes lingering on the sharp angle of her cheekbones and the tangle of jet black hair splayed out around her face and neck, which glow against the deep navy of her shirt. 

Recently Joan had often found her eyes drawn to Sherlock's features, though never before had she allowed them to linger. But now she lets herself look, gaze sweeping down the elegant curves and lithe frame that Joan so often envied. She really was extraordinarily beautiful – a thought that had occurred to Joan several times before, usually when watching Sherlock in Deduction Mode: grey eyes bright and intent, long fingers working over the crime scene as expertly as if she were plucking at her violin, mouth betraying the hints of a smile whenever she made a discovery.

Suddenly Sherlock shifts in her sleep, and – before Joan has time to turn away – opens her eyes. Joan quirks an eyebrow at her, and she pushes herself upright. “I needed Lestrade to get me some information.” she says, answering Joan's unspoken question. “I couldn't do any more until I had it, so I thought I'd follow your advice for once. I was only meant to be asleep for a few minutes.”

“Maybe I'm a good influence on you after all.” Joan remarks, pushing herself off the bed and heading for the corridor, hoping for at least a shower before she's pulled back into the whirlwind of case-solving.

Just as she steps out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her, she hears Sherlock murmur “Always, my dear.” just loud enough for her to catch. 

 

** 5  
** The fifth time is very deliberate.

Neither of them had seen it coming.

Though Mrs Hudson had been advancing in years, she had never lost her cheery demeanour. She had continued on, fondly berating Sherlock for the messes her experiments caused and clucking at Joan whenever she left the flat under dressed for the weather and bringing tea, biscuits and motherly advice to either of them when an argument had caused the other to storm out. She was their landlady, right up until the morning she wasn't.

Joan hears snatches of the doctor's verdict;  _ peacefully...in her sleep...natural causes, _ and blocks the rest out. She doesn't want to know.

She'd never been close with her mother, hadn't even seen her for over 6 years when she'd passed away. The grief she'd felt had been so abstract, so generic, sometimes Joan had wondered whether she'd only felt sorrow because that's what she was supposed to do.

But this time...

She holds it together in front of everyone, takes over the funeral arrangements from Mrs Hudson's sister, makes sure the first time she falls apart she is alone. She puts on a brave face and a stiff upper lip, because she can see just how badly Sherlock is coping.

The younger woman likewise hides her grief away, but Joan, who knows her better than anyone, can see the cracks in her façade. For the most part, she pretends not to see her friend's pain, and Sherlock affords her the same courtesy. 

Unsurprisingly, it is the funeral that proves their mutual undoing.

The small church is packed with people, most of whom are unfamiliar to Sherlock and Joan. They all sit respectfully, and speak bland words about the kind spirit and giving nature of Martha Hudson. Nobody talks about her drug dealing past or her successful stint as an exotic dancer or the vials of deadly poison secreted away at the back of her medicine cabinet (“Just in case” she'd whispered to Joan one day with a wink, “All sorts of wicked types in the world. It pays to be prepared, you know.”)

Joan wonders if any of these people really knew her at all.

She makes it through to the end of the day, shaking hands and giving condolences and listening to reminiscences. Sherlock sticks by her side the whole time, as though scared of losing her in the sea of mournful faces.

It is not until they return to the flat and the silence punches Joan in the chest the minute she walks through the door that she feels herself beginning to unravel. She heads straight for the stairs, averting her gaze from the door to 221A, hearing Sherlock's unnaturally heavy tread follow her. 

“She would have hated that.” Sherlock says once they are inside, “She would have pretended otherwise, of course, and probably fooled everyone, but she'd have hated it.”

“Looks like she fooled everyone anyway.” Joan replies, perching on the edge of the table, “They all seemed to think she really was just a sweet old lady.”

“Imbeciles.” Sherlock mutters, and Joan doesn't bother to chastise her for it. She simply stands and starts across the room, “We should get some sleep.” She isn't tired in the slightest, but what else is there to do?

Sherlock doesn't reply, and Joan heads upstairs. She finds herself moving slowly, as though every bone in her body is weighed down with lead. When she heads back downstairs almost 15 minutes later to retrieve her phone, she finds Sherlock still in the same position, eyes fixed on the carpet.

“Are you going to be OK?” she asks. 

“Of course.” Sherlock's voice sounds fragile, as though the merest breath of wind could shatter her. Joan abruptly feels an acute certainty that – despite her feeble assertions – leaving Sherlock to her own devices would be an extremely bad idea.

“Here.” she holds out a hand to her friend, who glances up at her with glazed eyes. When she doesn't move, Joan tells her, “You can't stand there all night. If you're planning on wasting away you should at least do it somewhere comfortable.”

Her attempt at gallows humour is weak and she knows it, but Sherlock hesitantly reaches out and takes her hand. Joan smiles reassuringly and leads her upstairs to her room, pulling the covers back as Sherlock removes her coat and shoes and unhooks her bra, slipping it out from under her shirt. Then she clambers in beside Joan, and the two women lie side-by-side in the darkness.

Joan had always found sleep surprisingly easy when lost in grief – her mind seemed to recognise her desire to shut the world out, to give her a break from an unforgiving reality, and soon she feels herself sliding under. As the room around her begins to retreat, the mattress shifts and Sherlock wraps herself around her, head pillowed on her chest and arm curled tightly around her waist. Joan embraces her protectively as the material of her shirt beneath Sherlock's face grows damp. Soon her own eyes are watering, and she tightens her hold on her friend, every nerve ending painfully conscious of the empty flat only one floor below them. 

That night is hard, and from experience Joan knows that the following nights will be no easier. Come morning both she and Sherlock will be back to neutral expressions and business-like attitudes, their bitter anguish pushed down and locked away in the hopes that it will never resurface. 

But while the night is there to hide them, Sherlock and Joan are powerless to do anything but drift off to sleep locked in each other's arms, both pretending they can't hear the other's muffled sobs in the darkness.

 

** +1  
** It happens so fast Joan isn't entirely convinced she didn't imagine it.

They are trapped behind a stack of packing crates in the corner of an old warehouse, cowering from the hail of bullets being rained down on them. Joan is in a crouch, her own gun drawn and loaded; Sherlock sits as still as she is able, eyes closed, somehow counting off the rounds as they are fired.

“One gun has only 5 bullets left.” she murmurs to Joan, “The other has 9. There will be a few seconds when both men have to reload. We have to move then.”

“Right.” Joan says, flicking the safety off her gun. Her brain has flicked to Solider Mode – muscles tensed in anticipation and heart pounding in a quick but steady rhythm.

“No.” Sherlock reaches out a hand, and covers her gun, “I'll go after them, I need you to slip out the front door and make sure Granger doesn't get away.”

“Sherlock, I'm not leaving you here!” Joan exclaims, as another shot slams into the wood near her ear.

“We don't have a choice.” Sherlock tells her impatiently. “Granger will be trying to escape and you stand the best chance of taking her down from a distance.” her eyes flick to the gun in Joan's hand. “I'll be fine.”

“This is insane.” Joan hisses.

“Perhaps, but in case you hadn't noticed we ran out of options some time ago.” Sherlock retorts, gesturing at their cornered position. “Don't worry, these men are neither skilled nor especially smart.”

“And yet there are two of them and only one of you.”

“Look–” Sherlock starts, then abruptly cuts herself off. “That was the fifth round.”

Sure enough, a second later there is the click of a cartridge being disconnected. Joan glances at Sherlock, and sees her staring back with a peculiarly intense look in her eyes.

“What–” Joan begins to ask, a split second before Sherlock launches across the narrow gap separating them and kisses her.

It is urgent and messy, and for a long moment, Joan is too startled to react. Then Sherlock's hands come to rest either side of her face and suddenly Joan is kissing her back – the younger woman's mouth tastes of coffee and heat and sends violent shivers running down Joan's spine. She parts her lips and feels Sherlock's cutting tongue slide teasingly across her teeth, the world around her momentarily forgotten as a breathy noise escapes her throat and she nips at Sherlock's lower lip. Then suddenly Sherlock is gone, leaping over the crates and leaving Joan crouched, alone and bewildered in the corner. 

She'd missed the last round being fired.

Cursing silently as she realises that now she has no choice but to do what Sherlock instructed, Joan pulls herself halfway upright and takes off for the door. The night air is cold on her flushed face as she rounds the side of the building and sees a lone figure fleeing across the car park. The world around her sharpens, every sound drowned out by her own pulse as she takes off at a sprint after Granger.

She doesn't need to catch her up, just get close enough.

Granger disappears down a side street and Joan smirks to herself as she runs down a parallel road. They emerge at the other end at the same time, Joan skidding to a halt and raising her gun as Granger bounces of the brick wall. The second it costs her is enough: Joan steadies her hands and fires, hitting the woman squarely in the shoulder and watching her crumple to the ground, the fire of adrenaline charging through her veins.

Several minutes later she finds Sherlock perched in the back of an ambulance with a shallow cut across her forehead and several bruises peppering her arms. Joan can tell from her irritated expression and clipped words to the medical attendee hovering over her that she is absolutely fine, and breathes a quiet sigh of relief before picking her way over to her. 

The moment Sherlock's eyes flicker up to meet Joan's a spike of energy passes between them. Suddenly all Joan can think about is Sherlock's lips moving insistently against her own, the smell of gunpowder and thin fingers in her hair. Her heart pounds and she feels blood rushing to her cheeks, right before Sherlock shakes her head minutely –  _ not here _ – and turn her attention to Lestrade. Joan stands in daze as she is checked over by another medic, Sherlock talks their way out of having to give statements that very minute, and a constable is snagged to drive them both home.

The car ride is spent in total silence, Joan's gaze fixed out of the window. She's so very, very aware of Sherlock sitting barely half a foot away from her, right within her reach, and the sheer effort of not closing the gap between them makes her head spin. After what seems like an age they pull up outside Baker Street, and Joan is too distracted to give more than a cursory thanks to their driver before clambering out and following Sherlock through the front door. It is impossible not to stare at the curve of the woman's thighs underneath her skirt as she mounts the stairs, and Joan doesn't even attempt to deny herself.

They reach the top of the stairs, and for a moment both stand in silence, Sherlock with her back to Joan.

Finally Joan can contain herself no longer, and says, “Sherlock.”

It is as far as she gets before the taller woman whips around, pushes Joan up against the wall and their mouths meet once again. Joan lets slip a surprised moan, her hands bunching in Sherlock's coat. Sherlock picks up right where she left off, trailing a tongue across Joan's bottom lip and sliding past her teeth. Her whole body presses Joan into the wall and one hand grips the back of her neck as she plunders her mouth. Joan pushes her hands under Sherlock's jacket and shirt and digs her nails into her smooth back, extracting a noise suspiciously like a whimper.

All of a sudden the reality of what is happening drops on Joan like a tonne of bricks, and her hands grasp her friend's shoulders, pushing her back a few inches. “Sherlock.”

“No.” Sherlock places a cool finger over Joan's lips, eyes blazing with a hunger Joan is sure is reflected in her own.

“But we–”

“Tomorrow.” Sherlock cuts across her. “You and I Joan, we have habits of finding just the right words to complicate matters and ruin things. All that needs to be said right now is that we both want this. We can talk tomorrow.”

Joan is about to protest the issue when Sherlock swoops down and licks a broad stripe up the side of her neck. She gasps and sags back against the wall, one hand fisting in Sherlock's jacket.  _ Tomorrow _ , she finds herself silently agreeing. She could worry and over-think and panic tomorrow. Right now, she needed to just  _ be _ .

Together they stagger down the hallway to Sherlock's bedroom, clothes discarded along the way until Joan is sprawled across the bed and Sherlock is crawling on top of her. The burning need that had been denied and ignored for so long now scours Joan's nerves with an intensity bordering on painful. Her hands roam frantically across Sherlock's skin and her lips demand to taste every inch of her. Sherlock, for her part, responds enthusiastically to every brush of Joan's fingers, every swipe of her tongue. Repeated repetition of her name soon degrades into garbled moans and pleas as Joan's thoughts likewise lose all sense of coherency. 

A part of Joan can't help but mourn all the lost years as they tumble over the edge together – so many days wasted searching in other corners or blundering around with their eyes closed, never smart enough to just  _ see _ . All the time that they'd been under the same roof, but so very far apart. Time they would never get back.

They lie sweaty and panting in the half-darkness, and (true to their words) say nothing about what had just happened and everything that it means for them. Instead, Sherlock curls tightly against Joan's side and they twine themselves together, even the smallest of gaps a space far too great. The permission Joan has granted herself not to analyse is enormously freeing, and she gently tilts Sherlock's head back and kisses her sweetly without a thought to the consequences the impending dawn will bring.

Fitted together like two long-lost pieces of a puzzle, they fall asleep with their foreheads resting together and their heart's beating in unison.


End file.
